Friday, December 30, 2016

It Sifts from Leaden Sieves by Emily Dickinson



It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road. 

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain,--
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again. 

It reaches to the fence,
And wraps, it rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem,--
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen,--
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

3 comments:

schmidleysscribblins.com said...

Oh Emily. I know there is a deeper meaning here. My English profs could find it, but Ii am captivated by the imagery.

Rambling Woods said...

I love Emily... I want to wish you a very .Happy New Year... hug Michelle

eileeninmd said...

Pretty poem! Happy New Year to you and your family!